


Accarezzévole

by notthewhizkid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Comfort, Gen, Johnlock in the background, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthewhizkid/pseuds/notthewhizkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, helping Sherlock express himself was the best thing Mycroft could do for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. da capo

“Go get your violin.”

The words weren’t quite a command, but they might as well have been. Sherlock always did as Mycroft said, and this was no different. The ten year old hesitated only a second, eyes locked with Mycroft’s, before he left the sitting room to go up the stairs. Mycroft let out a soft breath, thinking to himself that he was glad he could help his brother even a little bit. 

Days like this were coming more often now. Mycroft could see the signs that Sherlock was about to be overwhelmed. When that happened, he needed to be in a dark room, probably under a blanket, and Mycroft just had to wait it out and hope Sherlock was alright. 

Now, he’d figured out a way to help before it even began.

While Sherlock was upstairs getting his violin, Mycroft went to his own room on the main floor and found his cello. He didn’t bother with the music stands, leaving them where they were and coming back to the sitting room. 

Sherlock returned when Mycroft was nearly ready, rosining his bow and sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, having brought it in a moment before. Mycroft held his cello up in the correct stance and then watched Sherlock prepare, tuning his half-size violin and holding it up under his chin. 

There was trust in his gaze. Mycroft felt the weight of it every time they did this, but he knew how to handle it now. He was very much aware that without him, Sherlock would be going through this alone. At least Mycroft understood the burden of an overachieving brain. 

The beginning was the easy part. Mycroft held Sherlock’s gaze a moment longer, but then he held up his bow, letting it pull across the strings in a low tone. He always started them off, setting the tone. This time, he chose to go for something more serious. Mycroft kept his notes long and low, as if cautious and not wanting to do too much right at the start. 

He continued that way for at least a minute, changing notes as he pleased. Mycroft wasn’t following any set music, just going from one note to the next in a way that was fairly pleasing to listen. It didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be a distraction. 

Sherlock was free to join in whenever he felt up to it. Mycroft never rushed him, didn’t meet his eyes again. Sherlock was the one that was meant to benefit from this, so Mycroft didn’t want to put stress on his shoulders by pushing him to come in earlier than he wanted. 

Though Mycroft started them off, it was Sherlock who controlled their journey. His violin was higher in pitch than Mycroft’s cello, naturally, and he often took the melody of their songs. It was a bit different when they were doing this sort of exercise because nothing was planned, but Mycroft understood that even in practice his little brother liked being the center of attention. He was glad to give it to Sherlock if that was what helped him take control of his mind back. 

When Sherlock’s bow hit the strings, Mycroft kept his own tempo steady. He didn’t change a thing about what he was doing yet, wanting to feel where Sherlock intended for them to go. Even that could change in an instant if Sherlock wanted, but preparing and anticipating where he might go never hurt, in Mycroft’s experience. 

Sherlock was a fan of quick movements, chaotic little phrases that were almost an embodiment of his own personality in a way. Mycroft was there to even him out, ground him when he needed it, and he supposed he played his own personality in just the same manner. 

The music wasn’t perfect. Sherlock’s fingers didn’t always keep up with what his brain wanted, and though he might have been a virtuoso, Sherlock was still young with plenty to learn. An exercise like this would never be perfect, but Mycroft was proud that his little brother was able to do so much and keep up with himself when going so quickly. Mistakes were made, but they never lingered. Sherlock pushed through it when he heard himself play a wrong note, something that didn’t quite fit in with the rest, and he always corrected himself. He rarely made the same mistake twice. 

Mycroft was happy to go on as long as was needed, and he occasionally stole glances at Sherlock to see how he was doing. If his posture was tense and his motions were sharp, they were going to be playing a while longer. If he was relaxed and swaying with the rise and fall of his notes, Mycroft could be fairly sure they would settle into a more comfortable pace and eventually taper off. 

Sometimes it would take only minutes, sometimes they could be playing for over half an hour before Mycroft saw some improvement in his brother. Whatever it took, he told himself. Mycroft was here to help Sherlock through it. 

It took about twenty minutes this time, but Sherlock did calm down. His notes had become repetitive this time, like he enjoyed the tune and wanted to get it just right. Sherlock played it again and again with small variations, and Mycroft found a tune that complemented it well. Finally, Sherlock came to a stopping point and finished, dropping his bow and violin a moment later. 

Mycroft followed suit, going on for a few bars more before letting his notes fade out. 

They didn’t need to talk after playing together like that. Sherlock looked noticeably better, like he was less stiff and rigid. Mycroft was just glad to help his brother become more comfortable. 

He watched as Sherlock set his violin aside, carefully placing it on a chair and putting the bow with it. He’d put it away properly later, but Mycroft knew what he was waiting for. Setting his cello on its side and leaving his bow in the chair he’d been sitting in, the teenager stood and offered an arm to his brother. Sherlock came closer and went willingly into his embrace. 

Mycroft guided them to the sofa. He tucked Sherlock to his side, rubbing his back with one hand and carding through his messy curls with the other. They could stay like this all afternoon, and he wouldn’t mind a bit. Sherlock was Mycroft’s entire world, and that wasn’t changing. 

Except it did. When Mycroft went to university, he told his brother that he was still there for him and only a call away, but he knew things would change. 

Mycroft didn’t expect Sherlock to shut him out. 

When he came home for the holidays after his first term away, Mycroft could see that Sherlock was beginning to be overwhelmed again. He told Sherlock to go get his violin, and though Sherlock didn’t immediately follow his order, he trudged up to his room to get it soon enough. 

Mycroft started them off as usual, pulling his bow slowly across the strings. His notes were slightly more optimistic than usual today. 

Sherlock’s weren’t the same. When he came in, it was too quick and sounded forced, like he wanted this to be over with already. Mycroft watched him carefully, but Sherlock wasn’t letting the music help him this time. 

As they played longer, Sherlock made more mistakes than usual. He was tripping over notes, letting them pile up and come crashing down as though he didn’t care what the music sounded like anymore. 

Mycroft was too slow to see that Sherlock was too tense and only getting worse. He should have noticed sooner. 

It was too late at that point. Sherlock was close to his breaking point, and Mycroft could only watch as the boy snarled and tossed down his bow. Mycroft thought he might throw his violin next, but Sherlock didn’t. He set it hard on the table on his way out of the room, stomping up the stairs and slamming his door closed before Mycroft could even trail after him. 

Mycroft picked up the bow and violin, replacing them in the case Sherlock had left open on the sofa. He knew he couldn’t follow Sherlock up and into his room. Something between them had shattered when he’d gone away to university, and he didn’t know if he would ever get it back. 

He just hoped Sherlock would be alright on his own.


	2. come prima

“I don’t see why you keep putting yourself through this,” Sherlock hissed, but there was no real venom in his voice. 

Mycroft wouldn’t have backed down even if there was. He’d seen Sherlock go through worse, and he would always be there for him. It didn’t matter if he was seventeen and panicking at the end of his first real high or twenty-four and experiencing his first overdose. 

Or thirty-six and holing himself away in 221B Baker Street with enough cocaine to kill him. 

“Because you are important to me, dear Sherlock,” Mycroft answered as he leaned down to gather up the remains of his brother’s drug use. He didn’t know whether to be proud that Sherlock always managed to get clean, unused needles or deeply saddened that he found needles at all. He wondered if it was wrong to feel both things at the same time. 

Sherlock scoffed and rolled over on the sofa, his back now facing Mycroft. 

There was a folded up list on the table near him. Even now, years after Mycroft had pleaded with his brother to at least leave him a list of the things he’d taken, Sherlock still did it. There were small mercies after all. 

“I know you do not like to think of it that way, but you are important to me, Sherlock. That has never stopped being true.” Mycroft put the needle and empty zip bag that had once held cocaine into a bigger zip bag, intending to dispose of it at his office where he could be sure they would never fall into the hands of his brother or another user in the future. “And it will never stop being true,” he finished, knowing that even though Sherlock was pretending to ignore him, he was still very much aware of what Mycroft was saying. 

Sherlock didn’t reply. Mycroft pretended not to be hurt by the silence. 

He stayed through Sherlock’s high. At times, the younger Holmes could be volatile to himself, others, and his surroundings, but more often than not lately, Sherlock was still and quiet. Mycroft knew the reason, but he wondered if Sherlock himself had pinned it down yet. 

After all, it was easy to figure out that his change in patterns had only come after John Watson’s wedding, but Sherlock was still denying that he felt anything beyond friendship for the man. Mycroft knew that would go on as long as Sherlock could feasibly manage it. 

When Sherlock came down from his highs, he often demanded that Mycroft leave. Mycroft usually did so after receiving some sort of flimsy promise that Sherlock would try not to turn to drugs again, a promise that both of them knew would be broken within the week if not within just the next few days. 

The pattern continued for longer than Mycroft would have liked. Of course, Sherlock being clean was the goal, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. He just wanted his brother to be able to care for himself again instead of turning to any available high, but Mycroft knew he was almost enabling it by caring for him through all of it. 

“You should leave,” Sherlock spat before heaving again, one arm on the seat of the toilet, a makeshift cradle for his head. Mycroft was crouched beside him, rubbing his back like he used to do. Sherlock was too sick to argue. 

With another heave, Sherlock emptied what little Mycroft had gotten into him out into the toilet, coughing and trying to clear his mouth of the acidic taste. He spat, and Mycroft didn’t move away. 

“I mean it,” Sherlock added, emphasizing what he’d just said. “You should leave.” 

That was as close as they got to admitting they loved each other anymore. 

Mycroft continued rubbing Sherlock’s back, occasionally reaching up to brush back his curls. They were damp with sweat, and Mycroft made a mental note to have Sherlock drink more water once he could keep it down. “I’m not leaving. You know that.”

Sherlock did, but he frowned before heaving again. 

When Mycroft checked on him a few weeks later, Sherlock was lying on his back on the sofa, violin in hand. His thumb occasionally stroked over the strings to create a gentle plucking noise from each of them. “Still clean,” Sherlock said before Mycroft could even offer a greeting. “That’s what you want to know. Now leave.”

Mycroft did so, but not before checking the flat for any narcotics. Sherlock watched him from where he laid, still plucking at the strings. 

The next time Mycroft visited, Sherlock had taken another step backwards. Relapse was expected of an addict, but Mycroft never felt any less responsible when it happened. He should have been here to help his brother overcome the temptation, or at the very least he should have made sure he was trusted enough by Sherlock so that the man could come to him when he felt tempted. 

Mycroft pushed the thought from his mind. That wasn’t helping now. 

The violin was in Sherlock’s hands again, and he stood stiff and tall by the window. Everything was wrong about the way he was playing, but Mycroft didn’t interrupt him. Music had always been cathartic for Sherlock, and even if Mycroft thought he should be trying to relax and get through the high as easily as possible, he wasn’t going to stop the music. 

This wasn’t a tune he’d heard before. This piece wasn’t as simple as to be labeled as only sad or nostalgic. Mycroft knew it was more than that, and Sherlock was quite possibly just playing how he felt. It was easier for him to play through his emotions than express them verbally, and Mycroft knew the feeling. 

Danger nights were harder to predict than ever mostly because they were nearly every night. Mycroft had no way of knowing which nights would be the ones Sherlock would fall victim to, but he was already ready in case his brother needed him. Some weeks it felt like he lived at Baker Street because he was there so often. 

Mycroft saw it as progress when Sherlock began texting him that he’d used. Every text was saved and marked down on the calendar for Sherlock’s personal history so that Mycroft knew what was in his system at what time, but he always went to join his brother to help him through it. 

Sherlock never texted Mycroft to say he was tempted, but it was implied that he was always tempted. Mycroft had assumed as much. 

After a few months of dealing with the ups and downs of addiction, Mycroft decided to change his tactic. He was uncertain about this particular approach, and Mycroft Holmes was never uncertain about anything. 

When he got up to Sherlock’s flat, he had a sizable case with him. Sherlock was standing by the window again, just watching the street below. Mycroft knew he’d been watching his entire approach. 

Mycroft said nothing as he got the chair from the desk, setting up his cello. Sherlock watched him, his pale eyes not hard but instead almost unsure, like this was unexpected and he felt like a vulnerable child again. 

“Go get your violin,” Mycroft told him, rosining his bow. It had been a while since he played last, so Mycroft spent a few minutes tuning each string as he waited for Sherlock to return.

The violin had been upstairs. Mycroft watched as Sherlock tuned with him. 

The rest of it was exactly how it had been over twenty years ago. Mycroft began, this time with his notes shorter and holding more energy than before. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at it, but Mycroft said nothing. He continued and did as he pleased. 

It was rare for Mycroft to take the melody. Sherlock was usually the one that did that, and Mycroft would be glad to let him choose their path through the music, but he needed to help his brother right now. Music was always a metaphor for them, and Mycroft knew it was no less important now than when Sherlock was ten years old. 

Mycroft’s notes pieced together an energetic but somber tale, occasionally dipping into lower notes to rise again into the higher notes his instrument could manage. Mycroft let his eyes close for a few seconds as he visualized where the music would take them, fingers teasing over the strings as he did so. Sometimes he utilized vibrato or played multiple notes at once by using his bow on two of the strings at the same time, but Mycroft didn’t think about it too much. He let the notes fall together as they pleased, becoming something beautiful with little guidance from his clever brain. 

He almost didn’t notice when Sherlock came in. The violin began softly, rising in a crescendo until he was playing at the same dynamic as Mycroft. They weren’t competing, instead working together on different parts of the same melody. 

Mycroft was able to control where they went, through the ups and downs, and Sherlock followed. He couldn’t recall having done this with Sherlock before, always having followed his little brother because that was what he needed. Now, perhaps even Sherlock realized he needed a firm hand to guide and help him. 

At one point, Mycroft went into a decrescendo so Sherlock could have the lead, and the tune continued. Sherlock didn’t make the mistakes he had when he was a child, and Mycroft mentally applauded his level of skill. It was always clear that Sherlock was better at music than Mycroft had been, but it was rare for the older brother to hear his younger sibling actually play anymore. He’d be lucky most days if Sherlock screeched his bow against the strings in greeting as he stepped into 221B. 

Sherlock took the mood of the song and slowed it down, but Mycroft thought it seemed a bit more hopeful than his own somber interpretation. His lips quirked up a little at the idea, but he doubted   
Sherlock noticed. The violinist was too engrossed in his own music, and the sight alone made Mycroft’s chest swell. 

He hoped that hope was something Sherlock actually felt. Mycroft wished he knew for sure. 

When the music finally came to an end, Mycroft finished before Sherlock. His bow came off the strings before Sherlock’s, but the lower notes lingered longer than the higher ones of the violin. Mycroft let the air stay thick with the resonance of their music a moment longer before moving, almost afraid to break the mood if he did so. 

Still, he couldn’t stay motionless for the rest of the night, so eventually Mycroft did get up and begin cleaning his cello to put it back in its case. Sherlock seemed troubled by what had just happened, and Mycroft didn’t blame him. He felt like a teenager again, attempting to help his baby brother through a trial. 

Sherlock’s violin was tucked under an arm, bow hanging on the crook of one finger, and he watched Mycroft like he was something Sherlock couldn’t quite understand. 

When he was packed up, Mycroft came closer and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Be safe, brother dearest,” he told him, the tone of his voice almost matching the original one of his cello that evening. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

Mycroft met Sherlock’s eyes, not getting a response, and he patted his brother’s shoulder again before gathering his things and leaving the flat. He didn’t need to look up at the windows to know Sherlock was watching him as he got into his car.


End file.
